


everything i've had but couldn't keep

by mygalfriday (BrinneyFriday)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Scene, Angst, M/M, Making Out in the Bentley (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Scene: Soho 1967 (Good Omens), crowley stops aziraphale from getting out of the car
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 10:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20704454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrinneyFriday/pseuds/mygalfriday
Summary: By all accounts, he should be elated. Aziraphale hadn’t saidstop mooning after me, it's never going to happen. He hadn’t saidyou’re a demon, I’m an angel and this is never going to work. He’d only saidslow down. It’s the only acknowledgment Aziraphale has ever given him that he actually believes this six thousand year dance is leading somewhere.





	everything i've had but couldn't keep

**Author's Note:**

> Story title from Pale Blue Eyes by Velvet Underground AKA the top hit on AJ Crowley's Pining Playlist.

_“I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”_

Tentative smile fading, empty promises of picnics and elegant dinners hanging in the air between them, Aziraphale gazes at him with quiet regret etched into every soft line of his face. After a moment of hesitation, he admits into the stillness, “You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

The words, though quietly spoken, burn through his chest like the holy water Crowley now holds in his hands. They seep under his skin and eat away at muscle and bone until they reach the very heart of him; sinking like acid into his thoracic cavity and aorta, stoppering valves and ventricles until he thinks it might just cease beating altogether. Too fast?_Too fast?_

By all accounts, he should be elated. Aziraphale hadn’t said _stop mooning after me, it’s never going to happen_. He hadn’t said _you’re a demon, I’m an angel and this is never going to work_. He’d only said _slow down_. It’s the only acknowledgment Aziraphale has ever given him that he actually believes this six thousand year dance is leading somewhere. But the despair quickly stealing over Crowley like a bitter chill is nothing at all like relief. It’s been millennia. How much more slowly can he possibly go? He’d thought they were barely moving already. 

Somehow, within the warring cacophony of despair and triumph roaring in his head, Crowley hears the click of the passenger door opening. Before he can stop himself, panic propels him forward. His hand falls on Aziraphale’s arm, curling tightly around his wrist to stop him from slipping out of the car and off into the night. Back to his bookshop to avoid Crowley for the next thirty years. Aziraphale stills, trembling under his grip, and Crowley realizes the angel has been shaking ever since he handed over the thermos full of holy water. 

_Fuck_. 

Crowley loosens his grip into something softer but Aziraphale doesn’t look at him, keeping his eyes downcast and his lips pursed in that way he always does when he wants to say something he thinks he shouldn't. Crowley sets the thermos on the seat between them, turning to face him properly. “Angel,” he says gently. “I’ll be careful with it. I promise.” He squeezes his fingers briefly around Aziraphale’s wrist, hoping for a smile or at least a nod of acknowledgement. Aziraphale only shuts his eyes. “You don’t need to worry.”

Aziraphale’s lips curl but it isn't a smile — it’s far too sad and resigned to be called such. With a sigh, he opens his eyes and stares out at the bustling Soho nightlife around them as he says, “I’ve been worrying about you since the 11th century, Crowley. I don’t imagine I’ll stop now that I’ve placed the key to your destruction directly into your hands.”

“I told you, that’s not what I want it for.” Crowley pauses, frowning as the rest of what he’d said registers. The 11th century was when they’d begun their Arrangement, after years and years of Crowley whittling away at Aziraphale’s protestations. A quiet little thrill shoots through him and it’s impossible to keep the bewildered delight out of his voice as he asks, “You worry about me?”

Aziraphale extricates himself from Crowley’s grip with a tsk of his tongue. Mortified, Crowley jerks his arm back to his side of the car and drapes it over the back of the seat in an effort to appear casual. _Hell’s sake_, how had he not noticed he was still holding him? He clenches his jaw but it’s suddenly impossible to forget, his hand tingling with the memory of warmth under his palm. 

Busying himself with adjusting the wrinkled sleeve of his jacket and still expertly avoiding Crowley’s stare, Aziraphale huffs, “Of course I-” He smoothes a stubborn crease in his shirt cuff and makes another quiet noise of exasperation, his brow wrinkling with distress — over his clothes or Crowley, the demon couldn’t begin to guess. “You’re reckless, Crowley.” 

Apparently satisfied with the state of his coat, he wrings his hands together in that way that never fails to make Crowley want to cover them with his own. To cradle them close and kiss his knuckles until he forgets what it feels like to be anxious about anything. He grips the steering wheel, struggling with the urge to reach out. He’s been dealing with the desire to touch since the Beginning but for some reason, it’s more difficult than usual to ignore tonight. 

“The way you drive this infernal car of yours. The way you do your job, lying on all those reports. But most of all with yourself. The others I may tolerate but the latter I simply cannot condone.” Having worked himself into a proper state, Aziraphale finally looks up and meets Crowley’s gaze. His blue eyes are wide and his mouth trembles. “I want you _safe_.”

The vehemence — the genuine truth — of that quiet confession knocks the metaphorical breath out of Crowley. They’re friends, of course. Despite what Aziraphale may try to say to the contrary, Crowley has known that for centuries. But to hear that the angel thinks of him when they’re apart — actually frets over his wellbeing — is another matter entirely. And it floors him. Crowley licks his lips, staring unblinkingly at Aziraphale over the rim of his dark glasses. His hands tremble around the steering wheel, longing more than ever to reach for him. To return that confession with a few of his own. 

_You are the one bright spot in all of eternity._

_I’ve loved you since the moment I asked a question and you didn’t smite me. You didn’t cast me out of the Garden. You didn’t tell me to fuck off. You _answered_ me. _

_If you let me, I’ll keep us both safe I swear it_. 

Instead, all that tumbles out is a soft, hoarse, “You never said.”

Aziraphale looks away, studying his hands. With the cautious air of someone walking through a minefield, he admits, “I never say a lot of things. That does not mean I’m not thinking them.”

As it dawns on him that they might possibly be talking about something else — something they’ve never dared broach before — Crowley swallows with difficulty. He clears his throat, hardly daring to move lest he break whatever spell has fallen over this stolen moment between them. Whatever has made Aziraphale venture anywhere near the subject they’ve silently agreed to skirt around for centuries. “I worry about you too, you know.” 

It’s why he had asked for the holy water in the first place. If anyone from his side ever discovers he’s been consorting with an angel, they’ll make certain he regrets it. And Crowley will have already shown them his weakness. He’d needed an advantage — a weakness of their own to fight against them. He’ll douse all the fires of Hell before he lets them ever lay a hand on Aziraphale. 

“Difficult not to,” he says, forcing levity into his voice that he doesn’t really feel. A vain attempt to get Aziraphale to relax his tense shoulders. “You’re always finding a spot of trouble. Wandering into revolutions for a nibble. Befriending Nazi spies. And that time you almost burned at the stake for curing an entire village of the Pox.”

Aziraphale bites his lip, his smile pained enough to resemble a grimace instead. “You’ve always looked after me, Crowley.”

Crowley flinches away from the note of fondness curling around his words, mouth tightening into a thin line. “And let me guess,” he says, bitterness creeping into his voice. “That’s what you’re trying to do right now.”

With a short, terse nod, Aziraphale says with forced cheer, “It’s for the best. I don’t even want to think what Gabriel might do if he ever found out-”

“Sod him,” Crowley snarls. “Self-righteous prick.”

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale hisses, peeking out the car window furtively. “You can’t _say_ things like that.”

“Yeah?” Crowley arches an eyebrow. “Why not?”

Aziraphale doesn’t look at him, too busy glancing around like the smug bastard might pop out from behind a lamppost in one of his cashmere jumpers to scold him for _fraternizing_. “Because he could _hear_ you.”

Crowley huffs out a dry, humorless laugh and begins to pat his pockets for a cigarette. He’s been trying to quit but sod that too. _Something_ has to get him through this conversation and it certainly isn’t going to be his dignity. “M’not afraid of him, angel.”

“I know you’re not.” Aziraphale sighs, the tense line of his shoulders finally relaxing somewhat as he turns back to Crowley — apparently satisfied they’re not about to be ambushed by his git of a boss. “But I have to be. For both our sakes.”

Unlit cigarette dangling between his lips, Crowley pauses mid-search for a lighter and asks, “So that’s it then?”

“What would you have me do, Crowley?” Holds folded in his lap, Aziraphale looks at him with resignation in his eyes and Crowley _hates_ it. Hates that sodding Gabriel has him so terrified of the consequences that he won’t even entertain the idea of stepping out of line. He wants to take the angel by the shoulders and shake him until he realizes there is no power in Heaven or Hell that would ever keep them apart if Aziraphale would just tell him that’s what he wanted. Crowley would make sure of it. “Your safety is…paramount to me.”

“And you think I feel differently?” Crowley gives up on the lighter and tosses the cigarette on the dash irritably. He leans forward, eyes wide and earnest behind his sunglasses. “You think I don’t lie awake some nights wondering what might happen to you if Hastur ever got wind of -”

It takes Crowley a moment longer than it should to realize that the rest of his words have been cut short. Stalled in his throat as Aziraphale leans across the space between them and presses their lips together fervently. His mouth is warm and firm and careful against Crowley’s, his gentle hand curled around the back of his black turtleneck to keep him close. Their foreheads bump and Crowley’s sunglasses dig into the bridge of his nose uncomfortably. But Aziraphale is close and smells of old parchment and warm tea; his lips are plump and as perfectly sweet as Crowley had always imagined they would be. 

And all the fight abruptly leaves him, seeping right from his bones to make room for the sudden, fierce surge of _want_ that rocks him down to his soul. 

For the first time in his life, Crowley doesn’t ask any questions. He can’t even think of any. There is room for only one word in his head. _More_. He lunges forward with a groan and wraps his arms around the bundle of angelic warmth clinging to him like a particularly ardent ray of sunlight. Crowley nudges him back, shoving Aziraphale into the seat and following after him without breaking their kiss. Aziraphale makes a soft, gratified noise as Crowley climbs onto his lap, long legs straddling his hips on either side. His lips part just so and when Crowley cradles his head between his hands, he slips his tongue into Aziraphale’s lush mouth to taste him. 

Oh. Christ. Satan. 

_Somebody_. 

If Eden had a taste, it would be Aziraphale. Warm and vibrant. Wild but pure. Safe but untamed. Sunny skies and starry nights. The reassurance of a blazing bonfire on a chilly night, tucked tight under the arm of someone made just for you. The happiness of blind faith. The security of being loved. The sultry-sweet novelty of sin in its oldest, original form. He’s _perfect_. 

And then Aziraphale pulls away, panting hard, and Crowley feels despair fill him. Until the angel lifts a hand and gently tugs the dark glasses from Crowley’s face. He sets them carefully aside and studies Crowley’s bare face, no doubt taking in the naked want in his serpentine eyes. Exposed and vulnerable under his gaze, Crowley feels the sudden need to look away, to hide, to make sure Aziraphale doesn’t see just how much he —

“Beautiful,” Aziraphale whispers, and strokes a thumb featherlight across Crowley’s sharp cheekbone. “I’ve always thought so.”

Crowley stutters, his breath caught in his throat as Aziraphale gazes at him with the sort of awed reverence people usually reserve for staring at a Monet in the Louvre. Off balance under his attentive stare, he turns his head and presses a lingering kiss to the palm cupping his cheek. He flicks out his tongue and Aziraphale shudders, breath escaping him in a little gasp. 

“Angel, I-”

Threading gentle fingers through Crowley’s hair, Aziraphale determinedly guides their mouths back together and Crowley sinks into it like a warm bath. Which is exactly what kissing Aziraphale feels like — being submerged in the warmest, gentlest water imaginable. Being enveloped, surrounded on all sides and hearing the quiet lapping of the waves as it settles over him. Everything around him muffled and distorted but knowing that the water will carry him and keep him safe. Protected. Kissing Aziraphale feels like drowning with no desire at all to be rescued. 

They sink into each other, hands clutching hard enough to bruise and mouths open hot and hungry as their lips slide slickly together. It’s raw and just a bit filthy, teeth clacking together and breaths harsh between them. Six thousand years, Crowley thinks dizzily. Six thousand years of following this angel around, hoping for an invitation to dinner or a few drinks in the backroom of a bookshop, all culminating here right now. In Crowley’s Bentley on a crowded street in Soho, sitting on Aziraphale’s lap as the windows fog. 

Aziraphale’s coat is soft and timeworn beneath his hands, gripping mercilessly at the lapels to keep the angel close. He hears no protest over the treatment of his clothing, only soft whines of encouragement as Crowley rises up on his knees to change the angle of their kiss. Devouring Aziraphale with grasping, hard kisses and hoping he’ll carry the feel of Crowley’s mouth with him for days after. That when he prays, every word that falls from his bruised lips will remind him of the sin that made them so. 

“Crowley,” he gasps, shuddering between one heady kiss and the next. His hands grip Crowley’s thighs painfully and Crowley relishes the thought of bearing angelic fingerprints beneath his clothes. “This is - we shouldn’t.”

“You started it,” he murmurs, undeterred as his fingers sift through pale hair and his tongue laps at a dimple in Aziraphale’s cheek. 

The angel arches into his touch with a whimper and Crowley hisses against the shell of his ear, hips grinding down shamelessly. Aziraphale keens, a helpless, weak noise in the back of his throat. His fingers tighten on Crowley’s thighs and _oh yes_, that’s good. Balanced against Aziraphale’s sturdy chest, Crowley rubs himself against the swelling hardness in the angel’s trousers and nearly blacks out when Aziraphale bucks into him with a sharp cry. 

With ragged breath, he demands, “Tell me to stop and I will, angel.”

Lips pursed tightly together, Aziraphale shakes his head wordlessly. He whines low in his throat as Crowley rolls his hips again, eyes fluttering shut. Crowley stares at him, mesmerized. His mouth is red and kiss-bruised, his cheeks flushed a bright pink, and his white-blond curls sticking up oddly from Crowley’s eager hands in his hair. His impeccable clothes have been rumpled beyond help and his cravat hangs loose and limp around his neck. Crowley feels a hot, dangerous tug low in his belly. What a lovely picture of debauchery his angel makes. 

Aziraphale makes a soft, faintly embarrassed sound and regards Crowley almost bashfully through his lashes. And Crowley realizes he must have said that aloud. He’d be annoyed but it’s difficult with Aziraphale looking so flustered and pleased. “Yours,” he murmurs, blue eyes dark. The neon lights shining in through the windows flicker against his pale skin, casting him in glowing shades of red as he smiles softly. “Yes, I think I like that.”

“Ngk.” Crowley closes the gap between them once more, ducking his head to nips at Aziraphale’s exposed throat. The sweet, salty tang of him blooms on his tongue, making his mouth water. He scrapes his teeth lightly across a tendon in his neck and Aziraphale makes that sound Crowley has only ever heard when he’s eating particularly well-prepared crepes. There really is no alternative but to do it again. So he does, teeth grazing sharply over Aziraphale’s skin as he listens to the angel moan. 

“_Oh_. Wicked fiend.” Aziraphale tilts his head, giving Crowley easier access to suck possessive red marks along his throat. Crowley hums as he reaches his collarbone, sinking his teeth in. Aziraphale yelps, hips rocking up to meet Crowley’s of their own accord. His hands scrabble across Crowley’s back, slipping beneath his jacket and turtleneck to touch his bare skin. His fingertips dance along the notches of Crowley’s spine as he whispers reverently, “Darling.” 

Crowley goes hot all over at the endearment, bleary with desire as he lifts his head and captures the angel’s sweet mouth once more. “Again,” he hisses, nearly begging into the warm bliss of Aziraphale’s soft lips. “Say it again.”

“Darling,” Aziraphale breathes, his soft hand hot and grasping at Crowley’s back. His eyes are wide and dark just before they flutter shut. His lips find Crowley’s jaw, trailing a line of tender, perfect kisses up to his ear. “My love.” Crowley whines, head spinning. “Mine. _Touch me touch me touch me_.”

“Anything you want, angel,” he promises, breath hot against his cheek. “Anything.” 

Crowley’s hands shake as he reaches for the fastenings on Aziraphale’s trousers. Beneath him, Aziraphale clutches at the leather seat with one hand and the back of Crowley’s jacket with the other, clinging to him like he’ll slither away if Aziraphale doesn’t hold on tight. As though it hasn’t been Crowley chasing after him for six thousand years. As though Crowley could possibly tear himself away even if Lord Beezelbub themself appeared in the backseat with popcorn. 

The mechanics of a button are difficult enough when he’s this turned on but with Aziraphale still whispering in his ear and planting wet, eager kisses beneath his jaw, it’s sodding well impossible. _Darling_, he says again. _Beautiful_. And Crowley’s favorite — _please_. He growls under his breath and snaps clumsily. Using up a miracle to unbutton an angel’s trousers. Good thing HR stopped paying attention to his receipts centuries ago or that one might be difficult to explain. 

_Finally_, Crowley slips a hand inside Aziraphale’s trousers and wraps his fingers around him. And the look on his angel’s face when Crowley touches him is worth every single agonizing moment wondering if they’d ever get here. He looks rapturous — mouth dropped open on a high-pitched little gasp, glittering eyes fluttering shut as his head drops back to rest against the seat and expose the bite marks Crowley had left on his throat, hips lifting to seek out more. Crowley has witnessed religious experiences borne with less ecstasy. 

He stares, hungrily drinking in the sight of Aziraphale so undone at his hand. There is only a moment in which to savor the ravished vision he makes. The instant Crowley tightens his grip around him and leans in to whisper how utterly perfect he looks, the sound of a car horn down the street blares — bouncing off buildings and echoing around them like an alarm interrupting a particularly good dream. 

Aziraphale goes still against him, his eyes flying open with something close to horror. Crowley feels his heart sink into his stomach. If this was all just a very good dream, then Aziraphale is waking up. The moment has been broken and he can feel reality leaking back in. They stare at each other for a long moment, chests heaving and eyes glazed over. As the haze that had fallen over them begins to lift, Crowley pulls his hand from Aziraphale’s trousers. 

When Aziraphale bites his lip against a whimper, Crowley swallows. “Angel-”

Aziraphale flinches. 

Chastened, Crowley slips awkwardly from his lap. His own seat feels miles away and unspeakably cold.

Several long, agonizing seconds pass in complete silence. Only the bustle of Soho outside the car can be heard — the sounds of traffic, the chatter of oblivious people passing by, the laughter filtering out from a nearby pub. Inside the car, Crowley listens to the sound of his own harsh breathing and wonders what in Satan’s name just happened. His trousers still feel too tight to even move. His chest throbs as though it might burst, like this weak human corporation is suddenly too full of warring emotions to handle another second of containing Crowley within it. 

“That was — we shouldn’t have-” Aziraphale clears his throat, a trembling gesture with his hand restoring his clothes to pristine condition once more. As though Crowley had never touched him at all. It might have been more convincing if his cheeks weren’t still flushed or if he’d bothered to erase the marks Crowley had left on his neck. “I do apologize for getting carried away.”

Crowley cannot help the visceral reaction those words bring about, a guttural snarl that betrays him utterly. “For Hell’s sake, Aziraphale. Don’t-” 

_Don’t ask forgiveness for something I’ll never regret. _

_Don’t let those holy bastards keep us apart. _

_Don’t leave me._

He scrubs a hand over his face, glaring at the cigarette he’d abandoned on the dash. Beside him, Aziraphale sits tense and waiting, twisting the ring on his finger round and round. For a long moment, Crowley can only stare. Those soft, manicured hands had cupped his cheek; gripped his thighs like a python; slid up his spine with obeisance; dismantled every single wall Crowley had built between them to protect himself in two seconds flat. Even now, he still burns everywhere the angel had touched. 

And Aziraphale can’t even look at him. 

Hollowed out and aching in places a demon has no right to feel anymore, Crowley exhales unsteadily. “S’fine, angel.” Aziraphale relaxes marginally at his quiet assurance, as though he’d been waiting for Crowley’s absolution. Funny that, an angel seeking mercy from a demon. Crowley might have laughed if he weren’t using all his considerable willpower to hold himself together. “We’ll forget it. Yeah?”

With a reluctant nod, Aziraphale murmurs, “That might be best.” 

Crowley swallows, words falling heavy off his tongue like ash. “Then consider it forgotten.”

“I - yes. Thank you.” 

Aziraphale reaches for the door. 

"I could still drop you somewhere," Crowley tries, weakly. A pathetic attempt to keep him close for five more minutes. Satan, he loathes himself. 

"That's very kind," Aziraphale says, and forces a weary smile. The polite bastard. "But actually, I think it might be a better idea if I walk this time."

"Yeah, good. Right then." Crowley watches with his heart in his throat, waiting for him to get out of the car and walk away. He pauses, fingers white-knuckled around the handle. His shoulders tremble and when he turns to glance over his shoulder, Crowley feels a brief, shining moment of hope. But Aziraphale doesn’t look at him, his wounded gaze falling instead to the thermos filled with holy water still sitting on the seat between them.

“Please,” he whispers, sounding pained. “Do be careful with that, darling.”

The endearment falls off his lips with ease, piercing Crowley right in the chest. His vision blurs and by the time he blinks away the sting in his eyes and looks up, the car door slams and Aziraphale is gone. Crowley stares after him, the ache in his chest expanding with every step the angel takes away from him. His lips still tingle with the memory of searing kisses and his skin burns as though Aziraphale’s hands had simply been too holy to touch him. 

Numbly, he reaches for the thermos and stows it in the glovebox for safekeeping. He’d promised he would be careful with it, after all. No matter how appealing the idea of cracking the lid and sipping it feels at the moment. He picks up his glasses next and slides them back on. He still feels naked and he knows it will take a few decades at least before he can face Aziraphale again. It will take at least that long to repair and reinforce all those walls the angel had sent tumbling down with a single kiss. Perhaps even twice as much to bury his guilt for lying to Aziraphale.

One lie in six thousand years, he muses. Not bad for a demon, really. 

Because no matter what he’d said to reassure the angel, there is no forgetting any of this. Not for all the Châteauneuf-du-Pape in the world. Crowley wouldn’t even if he could. How could he possibly want to give up knowing the taste of Azirphale’s mouth? The pretty flush of his cheeks or the shy, eager stroke of his tongue? The delighted moans in his ear? Why would he ever willingly choose not to remember the sensation of Aziraphale’s tidy fingers stroking up his spine or the solidity of his chest against Crowley’s? The way he’d gasped so beautifully when Crowley sank his teeth into his skin? The memories will burn like holy water for a long time — centuries, even — but given the choice between the pain of remembering or never knowing at all? 

Crowley will choose knowledge every time.


End file.
